


Badge of Life

by ArtemisRae



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Community: help_haiti, F/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-04
Updated: 2010-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRae/pseuds/ArtemisRae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nakedness isn't only about removing your clothes. Annabeth is an open book, if Percy can learn how to read her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Badge of Life

**Author's Note:**

> My help_haiti fic for Livejournal user green_climber, who really only wanted something with Percy and Annabeth and was very nice about letting me pretty much write whatever I wanted. If she doesn't like this. I will be more than pleased to take another shot and write something else for her. Title is stolen from The Clarks song "The Runaway" which is an song about Annabeth if there ever was.
> 
> Takes place post-series, warnings for spoilers and teenage hormones and nakedness, though it's about vulnerability, not sex.

* * *

  
Something about having Annabeth in proximity makes his ADHD go haywire. He can never think straight long enough to pinpoint it, but it always seems like once Annabeth is within arm's reach, he's suddenly noticing every single little thing about their surroundings: the way the light plays off of the dust floating in the air, and the fact that there's a spot of rainbow on the carpet where the sunlight is passing through a glass, and _wow_, has he seriously never realized that there are maroon stripes in the blue plaid of his comforter before?

  
And that's even before Annabeth actually touches him. Once Annabeth has her hands on him, or her lips on his, the ADHD narrows focus; it's entirely on her, on Annabeth and the stray curl that's brushing his cheek, the press of her chest against his, and the grip of her hand on his elbow. These are the points of contact where the heat starts and spreads out until they're both flushed and panting and trembling against one another.

  
This is the part they have perfected between the two of them. By now they can read each other, have figured out what all those little signals mean. When Annabeth whimpers, or his hands spasm and clutch at her, they've figured out exactly what they're each granting permission towards, when it's safe to push ahead or when it's time to pull back. It's Percy's favorite part of their time together, when he can pull away and see Annabeth's bright eyes and swollen lips, and know that he's the only person on the planet who gets to have this. It's about a hundred times better than any reward the gods could have offered him, especially once he realizes that the brightness in Annabeth's eyes means that he can wrap his arms around her, pull her down onto the bed next to him, and slip his hands under her shirt, working his way up until she's pulling the offending garment over her head.

  
Afterwards is when he encounters dangerous territory; bras are a rather foreign concept to him and despite his appreciation of Annabeth's, he really thinks he'd like to develop a long-distance relationship with it. The only problem with that plan is the fact that he hasn't once successfully unhooked and removed Annabeth's bra, and she, having resolved never to make things easy for him, _won't help_.

  
This has led to way more nights than Percy would like to admit of him complaining that she's _laughing_, and her insisting that _no she's not_ even as she's panting soft chuckles against his neck while he tries to figure out how the first hook got stuck when it was free just moments ago. Before he can actually navigate the task they're inevitably interrupted or one of them kills the mood – once he'd grunted out some Greek curse against the inventor of the bra, and Annabeth had informed him that it was a child of Aphrodite, and while a historical conspiracy to make his love life as difficult as possible sounds about as likely as the prospect that he has stupid fingers, bringing their family into it really just ruins the whole atmosphere.

  
But tonight Percy feels a surge of confidence that he hasn't felt before; maybe it's because it's the full moon and that sometimes affects him like it affects the tides, or maybe it's because he's got Annabeth half sprawled on top of him, her weight pressing in all the right places while they kiss in that frantic way that usually only occurs after adrenaline pumping experiences such as roller coasters and monster fights, but either way as his questing hands reach behind her to the clasps of her bra, Percy knows: He's got this tonight.

  
Annabeth has the nerve to look surprised when the straps to her bra fall down her arms, and Percy isn't able to help the smirk that crosses his face as he hooks his thigh over her hip and rolls them over so he's on top of her as he pulls it off and tosses it over his shoulder.

  
"Percy!" Annabeth protests, but she's laughing so he knows she doesn't really mind, and he might have been a little ashamed to admit that he's not really listening to her right now, not when he's gotten his first unveiled view of Annabeth's –

  
"What's that?" Percy asks, one trembling finger coming up to trace the pale pink line curving at the top of one breast. It disappears around her side, under her arm; he's never noticed it because the cup of her bra has covered it.

  
Annabeth blinks, her mouth opening and closing, watching warily as he caresses her skin. He's so engrossed with it because it's a newer scar, healed but still a little shiny and purple in the middle.

  
It's her hesitance that grabs him; he looks up at her, and he wonders for a minute if the blush on her cheeks is still from arousal as she finally licks her lips and says slowly, "That monster that surprised us at dinner last month…"

  
The memory comes back to him in a flash. They'd been walking home from a sushi place Paul had recommended. Annabeth had been teasing him about his leftovers – _"Feeling a little guilty for ordering seafood?_" – when they'd been dive-bombed by a stray harpy.

  
Annabeth had been raked by the claws before she'd calmly drawn her dagger; afterwards she'd shrugged the injury off when Percy had wanted to see. There'd been blood, and her shirt had been torn, but Annabeth had been insistent that she was fine, so he'd simply handed over his jacket to cover her until she got home and hadn't given it a second thought.

  
A strange, bitter feeling curls in his stomach. "You said it wasn't that bad!" he blurts out, giving her a hurt look.

  
Her eyebrows crease. "It wasn't," Annabeth answers, a little bit too practically for his tastes. "I didn't even need a hit of nectar. It ruined my shirt though."

  
Percy frowns as he touches the scar once again; he can't really account for the sick feeling in his stomach. He's seen Annabeth hurt before; he's seen her take life-threatening injuries before. Why should this one be any different?

  
_Because she hadn't told him._

  
"Hey," Annabeth whispers, pulling him out of his reverie. Her hands are still tangled in his hair, and she tugs slightly, drawing his attention to her face. The brightness is still in her eyes, her face still flushed. She's beautiful, and she's his, and while he's never once doubted her prowess as a warrior – she's beaten him sparring more times than he can count – he's never really thought about the experiences she hasn't shared.

  
She smiles at him. "Hey Seaweed Brain, I didn't let you take my bra off so you could criticize my battle reflexes." There's only the smallest amount of bite to her remark, and when the keywords to that sentence – _bra_ and _off_ – filter through his brain his focus widens once again and –

  
And Annabeth's naked chest is right in front of him. The blush from her cheeks is crawling down her neck, and something about that makes his heart swell. It's more than enough to banish any worries to the back of his mind, behind the part that's gleefully shouting about Annabeth being topless.

 

* * *

  
The weird thing about Annabeth wearing nothing but a pair of underwear around him is that he's seen her in a bathing suit hundreds of times, but something about panties makes it way more exciting than a bathing suit ever was (which, in his mind, was pretty damn exciting).

  
They're supposed to be studying – because Paul can help him out with English, but his stepfather is hopeless with math, and Annabeth can actually get her head around the equations – and somehow that turns into kissing, which turns into touching, which turns into the two of them (mostly) naked and laying out on his bed.

  
He's extra excited tonight, because he's never gotten her out of her school skirt before; she's never offered to take it off and the fact that she's allowed his hands to wander up has always satisfied him.

  
She's topless, and laying on her stomach, propping herself up onto her elbows and leafing through his geometry book. Annabeth is especially good at geometry, and he really wishes she'd just tell him the answers so they can kiss again, but what she usually does instead is lecture over and over until he gets it enough to finish the assignment. She's talking to him, but Percy isn't paying attention – really, he knows better, because the more she repeats herself the more annoyed she gets – but he's laying on his side watching her, and it's with some surprise the he realizes he's never taken the proper amount of time to appreciate her back before.

  
It's perfect – soft skin, with hard muscle underneath. He slowly runs his hand down the center, idly counting the notches of her spine, quietly marveling at how smooth the skin is under his hand.

  
He finds the rough patch right below the small of her back, right above the waistband of her panties – simple, white, cotton panties that Percy already knows are going to be the center of way too many fantasies in the coming days – and at first he's so enthralled with the underwear and the promising curve underneath that he doesn't notice how he's stroking over the small rough patch until Annabeth cranes her head over her shoulder and asks in a wearisome tone, "You're not even trying to listen to me, are you?"

  
"It's not due 'til Thursday," Percy answers absently. He rolls over so he's almost lying on top of her, the warmth of her body against his flank, and tilts his head as he grazes the mark again. It's an old scar, he can tell by the coloring and the feeling of the tissue under his hand, and he's less surprised by its existence as much as it's placement. "Hey," he says gently, and when she looks back at him again he simply nods toward it, his hand still laying palm flat at the small of her back.

  
"Oh, I forgot about that one," Annabeth remarks, but the tone of her voice isn't sad or wary. "That's from my second summer at camp. An Ares camper got a little too excited running drills and nicked me with a sword."

  
"You got hurt at camp?" Lots of kids do, but somehow it's still surprising to him. Camp, for all of its lurking dangers, always feels like a safe, homey sort of place to him. Vaguely he wonders if it was anyone he's ever met; he can't help noticing that Annabeth has conveniently left out any mention of names or gender or anything that might encourage him to give someone an extra knock to the helmet during training next summer. "Weren't you wearing armor?"

  
"It was just drills!" Annabeth protests, exasperated. "Geez, that was exactly what Luke said too. He was so mad…." Her voice gets a lot quieter; Percy glances up and notices that her eyes are glazed over with nostalgia. "He marched me down to Chiron to make sure I was okay, and he gave me every lecture in the book about being aware of my surroundings and always being prepared and…" she trails off and picks up again, her voice faint. "I hadn't seen him that mad since Thalia…"

  
A strange pit forms in Percy's stomach. Part of him knows it's his fault that Annabeth hardly ever talks about Luke. But he also can't help the other part of him that protests when Annabeth reveals a little part of her history with Luke; he's familiar with it in broad terms, and the specifics only give him a glimpse of the life that was lost even before Luke's death. He knows Luke waits in Elysium, he knows Luke died a hero, regretting his actions, but he also knows that Luke is another person who once left Annabeth behind, committing the same sin as his father had committed against him.

  
Still, he'd rather Annabeth say something than nothing. Annabeth's life is divided into two portions: Before the War, and After the War (unofficially, he knows, it's Before Percy and After Luke) and every time she reveals a little bit of the Before makes him understand a little better how Annabeth kept her faith in Luke even after he hosted Kronos.

  
That doesn't mean he knows how to respond. Percy understands that he's gaining perspective, has figured out that it's a building block in their relationship, but hasn't learned how to craft anything with it yet. Instead he worries his bottom lip, runs his hand back up her spine to twist a curl around his index finger, and turns his attention back to geometry.

  
"Volume of a cone," he says, tapping a page on the book. "The study guide says that'll definitely be on the test."

 

* * *

  
This is not the first time he's been near Annabeth when she's naked.

  
It sort of feels like it though, because it's the first time he's actually _seen_ her naked.

  
It is exactly as glorious as he'd thought it would be.

  
There'd been a few frantic groping sessions under covers, in the dark, but now there's real natural sunlight filtering through the room, and Annabeth is standing in front of him, posing playfully with her long curls cascading down her back, a hand on her hip, and a coy look on her face as she glances at him over one shoulder.

  
If his mom and Paul come home right now they are so screwed, and yet that's the furthest thought from his mind as he reaches out and snags her wrist, turning her towards him. Some part of him is acutely aware of the fact that his jaw is slack, but as he rests a hand on her hip and splays his fingers, any part of him that's not immediately connected to her seems unimportant.

  
When he moves, sliding his hand up, she shifts and lets out a breathy laugh, and when he raises his eyebrows questioningly – because really, he was in the middle of something – she gives him an affectionate smile and threads her fingers into his hair. "Your hands are cold," Annabeth whines, but by now it's a complaint that Percy is used to; his quiet exploration doesn't stop.

  
He wraps one arm high around her waist and pulls her closer while the other one runs up the plain of her stomach. Annabeth squirms under his touch, but he can tell by the change in her breathing that he's got her, that there isn't going to be any more complaining tonight.

  
He wants to memorize every part of her: the curve of her hips, the slope of her breasts, and –

  
And the four short, jagged lines below her navel, towards her right hip. They're old, so pale that they're barely discernible against the white skin where her tan line starts. He doesn't really want to know what they're from and wasn't really planning on asking, but Annabeth notices him studying the marks.

  
"Did I ever tell you," she asks quietly, her hands sliding out of his hair and cupping his face, drawing his eyes up to hers, "about the first monster that ever found me?"

  
Her hands, unlike his, are warm. Percy shakes his head, and Annabeth grimaces. "It was a hellhound," she says simply, and Percy's jaw drops. "It got a good swipe in, and I totally thought it was going to eat me."

  
"What happened?" he asks, because he's faced hellhounds, and as good-natured as Mrs. O'Leary is, the breed as a whole is rather terrifying. He can't imagine facing that as a child.

  
"My dad had a lot of big dogs, remember? He was used to training them, so he did what he always did when one of the dogs acted out." This must have been before her stepmother, Percy can't help thinking. Her tone is almost as wistful as when she talks about Luke. "He got out the vacuum cleaner and chased it off."

  
"What?!" Percy barks a laugh, his hands idly stroking circles into the soft skin of her hips. "With a vacuum cleaner?"

  
"Of course!" Annabeth insists, cracking a grin. "Dogs are usually scared of them, they don't like the noise. I don't think my dad realized what it was until later though, because he got real upset the next day. That was around when he asked my mom to raise me on Olympus."

  
He knows where the story goes from there. It's funny, he thinks, because Annabeth knows so much about him, little details about his childhood and his life that he's told her so casually or that his mother has spilled, enough that she can probably fill an entire encyclopedia about him alone, but he's still learning about her, bit by bit.

  
He's the only one who'll ever learn those details though; her entire story is here on her body for him – and only ever him – to read. The Minotaur horn still sits on his bedside table in Cabin Three. Everyone at camp has seen it. Annabeth carries four scars from a hellhound low on her hip, and he's the one who'll get to trace them with his fingers and kiss them as she stretches out next to him.

  
"Are you sure your parents won't be back until late?" she asks as she settles beside him, one of his arms still slung around her waist. She fits perfectly, tucked up against his side.

  
"I'm sure," he assures her as he cups her cheek and leans in to kiss her. "We've got all the time in the world."


End file.
